


A Charming Afternoon

by vanillafluffy



Category: Sons of Anarchy, Venom - Fandom
Genre: Bikers, Crash Landing, Gen, Road Trips, Take no prisoners
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2020-07-29 01:46:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20074087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanillafluffy/pseuds/vanillafluffy
Summary: When Eddie has trouble with the Ducati, he winds up at Teller-Morrow Cycles, where he has to think fast to stay out of trouble with the local bikers.





	A Charming Afternoon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cozy_coffee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cozy_coffee/gifts).

Northern California is glorious today. Eddie steers the bike along the highway, smiling. Venom, never more than a thought away, radiates bliss at the rush of the wind and the power of the Ducati beneath them. They tracked a witness to a small town near the Oregon state line, and gotten the real story about what’s been going on with a certain shady non-profit. Now, they’re midway back to San Francisco, enjoying the sunshine highway.

Wrapped up in the pleasure of the ride, he isn’t being hyper-vigilant, so it comes as a complete shock when the back tire blows. The bike pitches and Eddie sails over the handlebars, rolling over and over, coming to rest face down on the asphalt.

He’s dazed for a moment. Probably worse than that, but Venom is on the job. Gradually, the arm he landed on stops throbbing. The other aches and pains fade away. “Thanks, V,” he murmurs.

Obviously, he’s going to need a new tire to get them home. Edging the bike over to the side of the road, he consults his phone. The nearest listing for a motorcycle repair shop of any kind is just a couple miles up the road in a town called Charming. 

Charming, California…sounds like the kind of place that could use a feature story about being one of America’s cutest small towns. Of course, first he has to get there.

**I’ll help you.** Venom lifts the back end of the bike up so it won’t be rolling on the rim, grabs the handlebars and begins jogging down the road toward Charming.

There are times when having a symbiote partner is a really good thing, and this is one of them. Without him, Eddie would be on the side of the road right now, waiting for an ambulance and/or AAA. Instead, he’s got a chance of getting the bike fixed tonight, although by the time it’s done, he may wind up looking for a motel.

Eddie’s image of Charming undergoes a revision when they roll up to Teller-Morrow Cycles. There’s a row of hogs out front, and as they wheel the Ducati up to the front door, they hear the last part of a conversation.

“You bastards won’t get away with this! Just wait, the Cowhands are gonna hunt down your sorry asses! You better not mess with us!”

“They’re not going to come after us, because they’re never going to find your body,” says another voice matter-of-factly.

“That’s what you get for trying to rip off our shipment,” another voice adds.

This does not sound good. Eddie backs off, ready to retreat and find a place to park and call AAA. 

Venom stops him as they get back to the street. **Why don’t you call them?”** he suggests, half a block away. **Ask if they have a new tire.**

“Uh, V, I’m pretty sure they’re getting ready to kill some poor bastard.”

**A bad person who stole from them. Killing bad people isn’t wrong--we do it,** the symbiote reminds him.

Eddie wants to point out that they don’t know the whole story, that the Teller-Morrow bunch only said the condemned man _tried_ to rip them off, and that ‘shipment’ is remarkably vague and could mean anything: money, drugs, weapons, kiddy porn--even if it’s just something simple like bike parts, that’s no reason to whack somebody.

**Call them. I’m tired of holding this thing.**

Reluctantly, Eddie extracts his phone and rings Teller-Morrow. “Hey,” he says when the ‘never find your body’ guy answers, “Do you happen to have a tire for a Ducati? I need a five-fifty by seventeen.”

“Hang on, let me check.” Muffled, Eddie can faintly hear, “Bobby, stash that guy in the clubhouse for now. Juice, do we have a five-fifty by seventeen in stock?”

There a pause, maybe a minute before the calm voice says, “You’re in luck. We’ve got one.”

“I’m just up the road, I’ll be there in a few,” Eddie responds, trying not to think of murder. 

“Glad to help.”

Eddie pockets the phone. “We’d better take it slow, V. Just lift it enough not to dent the rim and let me do the pushing, okay? Let’s not make them suspicious.”

**Why not?**

“Because all we want is a tire--not trouble,” Eddie tells him wearily. The symbiote has been doing all the work, so why is he so tired?

Two youngish guys occupy the shop, both wearing denim vests, patches emblazoned with _Sons of Anarchy_ on their backs. One of them is blond with a goatee, the other has a shaved head with tribal tattoos on his scalp. They greet him so casually he almost doubts what he heard earlier. These guys, killers? Really? But the blond guy was the one from the phone call, the one who’d threatened the alleged thief.

Jax Teller is the blond guy’s name--he and his step-dad own the place, he says easily. He’s been riding since before he was born and has complementary things to say about the Ducati. Apparently it isn’t true that “real” bikers only respect Harleys.

The guy with the tatts is Juice. Jax puts him to work putting a new tire on the wheel while Jax shoots the breeze with Eddie. Eddie rode cross-country when he relocated to San Francisco--he talks about freezing his ass off going through the Rockies, and Jax counters with a story about visiting the Irish chapter of the _Sons of Anarchy_ and the differences over there. He’s a born raconteur; Eddie laughs at a story of Jax almost hooking up with his own half-sister. He likes the guy.

A phone rings in the office. Jax grimaces. “Duty calls. I gotta take this.”

Eddie leans against the workbench at the back of the garage, relaxed. Maybe these guys saw him coming and wanted to see if he’d spook. They seem so laid-back….

To his right, a door at the back of the room opens and a burly, bearded man walks out, closing it behind him. The third man…Bobby, if he heard correctly…he’s also wearing one of the club vests. He’s older than Eddie by at least a decade, He scowls at Eddie, then crosses the shop and goes into the office to talk to Jax, who’s still on the phone. 

**Eddie, I smell dinner. In there. Dinner! I’m hungry. Moving your bike was a lot of work.**

Without Eddie’s volition, Venom grabs the doorknob, opens the door and steps into the other room, where there’s a man tied, gagged and laying on the floor.

“We’ve got to hear his side of it,” Eddie mutters before Venom starts in on the prisoner. 

Bending over, he loosens the gag, only to be met with a barrage of curses and threats. Apparently, the fact that Eddie isn’t wearing a patch and might not be affiliated with his captors never crosses his mind. No, he’s too busy venting about how his club, the Cowhands, is gonna get payback.

About the time he insults Eddie’s mother, Eddie shrugs and says, “Have it your own way.”

A moment later, there’s nothing left of the Cowhand but a few bloody chunks on the industrial gray carpeting. Eddie retreats back into the main room. 

Juice is still mounting the tire on Eddie’s rim, Jax is still on the phone with the third guy in the office making ‘wrap it up, we’ve got to talk’ motions. There’s one thing to be said for Venom: He may cause a mess, but as long as he’s in his own form, none of that mess transfers to Eddie. He still looks like a guy who’s rolled his bike, but not like he’s just perpetrated a bloodbath.

When Jax hangs up, Bobby starts talking, gesturing toward the back room. Eddie does his best to look unconcerned, studying the various posters on the wall and shifting from foot to foot.

Eddie’s learned to deal with Venom’s appetites, although usually, like now, he feels bloated afterward. Something else occurs to him: How is he going to pay for the repairs? Whipping out a credit card could get him killed if these guys know who Eddie Brock is. The show’s been off the air long enough that he doesn’t get recognized as much these days, but the last thing the Sons are going to want is a reporter anywhere near their would-be murder.

The big man is heading his way. Shoots him a look. 

_Nope, not me, I’m harmless._ “Hey, excuse me, have you got a restroom around here?” Eddie asks, doing his best to be friendly and unsuspicious.

“Over there.” Bobby hikes his thumb at a door near the office.

“Thanks, man.”

Safely inside the washroom, Eddie quietly freaks out. It’s probably gonna run him two hundred for the wheel, plus whatever service change they’re gonna tack on--and he hasn’t got anywhere near that much on him. Like being made as a reporter, trying to stiff them on work done is probably a sure way to get himself hurt. Not that Venom would allow that, but he’d rather avoid the situation entirely.

Then Venom emerges and upchucks an object into the sink. It’s the Cowhand’s wallet, extremely slimy but still recognizable. Grimacing, Eddie unfolds it and extracts the cash contents. Then Venom obligingly gulps the wallet down again. Eddie washes his hands thoroughly, then counts the proceeds. Crime must pay; there’s over four hundred dollars in twenties and fifties.

Mindful of the old adage about putting all one’s eggs in the same basket, Eddie stashes half the money in his boots, while the rest is divided between his pockets and billfold. Flashing a wad of cash isn’t any smarter than using a credit card. 

Back in the shop, Juice has the wheel on the Ducati and is torquing everything back together. Jax and the stocky man are standing near the door in front of the room where the Cowhand had met his demise. They’re talking in low tones, falling silent as Eddie strolls over.

“How much am I looking at?” he asks Jax casually.

“Call it two hundred, even. Juice is just gonna take it once around the block to make sure everything is right and tight and you’ll be good to go.”

Eddie exhales a sigh of relief. “Thanks, man. That’s do-able. I was afraid I was going to end up scrubbing the john with a toothbrush to pay for it.”

Juice rides the Ducati out of the shop. Eddie watches him go, slightly worried. Although with Venom on hand, he’s not _that_ worried. 

Bobby addresses him for the first time. “Did you lay it down?”

“Yeah,” Eddie admits. “I was just riding along, minding my own business and pow! I went ass over elbows.”

“You picked up a screw, Juice found it in your old tire,” Jax says. “You’ve got a jacket, why the hell weren’t you wearing it? It doesn’t do any good in your saddle bag!”

There’s something intrinsically funny about being lectured on bike safety by a guy who was plotting murder less than an hour ago. And considering what happened to the would-be victim, Eddie barely manages to keep a straight face. “I know. You’re right. I just never thought it would happen to me.”

“Good thing you had your helmet on,” Bobby says gruffly. “Could’ve been a lot worse.”

Eddie starts fishing money out of his jeans, making sure they see he’s got less than fifty bucks left when he puts his wallet away. He pays Jax as Juice rumbles back in.

“That’s a really sweet bike!” The young biker is enthusiastic. “Thanks for the test drive.”

“Thanks for getting me back on the road. I ought to be able to make it home tonight if I get my ass in gear.”

“Here, take this.” Bobby hands him a bundle of acid green cloth, which turns out to be a Teller-Morrow Cycles tee, dark blue lettering and logo on the screaming green background. “Then put your jacket on over it, dumbass.”

“Great. Thanks.” Eddie peels off what’s left of his old shirt--the back is shredded from when he hit the road.

“Good thing you didn’t mess up your ink. That’s a sick back-piece!” Juice says as he picks up Eddie’s dead tire and heads toward the back door with it. “All that black must've hurt like hell. ”

Back-piece? Eddie’s not quite sleeved, but he doesn’t have any ink on his back. 

"Yeah, that smiling demon is pretty wicked," Jax agrees, tucking the wad of cash into his vest pocket.

The third man yelps, staring at Eddie with his mouth sagging open.

“What the hell?” Jax asks him.

“His tattoo--it _winked_ at me!” Bobby is several shades paler than usual as Eddie pulls the new tee over his head, not quite suppressing his grin.

“Don’t mind Bobby,” Jax advises with a significant look at his friend. “He’s just been smoking a little too much of Humbolt County’s finest. Which explains _a lot_.”

“I swear to God--”

“Thanks again for everything,” Eddie says hastily, shrugging into his jacket and straddling the Ducati. “I really appreciate everything you’ve done. Happy trails!” Then he gets the hell out of Teller-Morrow with a gasp of relief. Bobby was right about one thing: That could’ve been a lot worse.

They’ll be home in an hour and a half. _San Francisco, here we come!_ Eddie zooms down the highway, roaring past the quaint sign extolling the town’s virtues.

_Charming, my ass._

…


End file.
